


Stand and Deliver

by GloriaMundi



Category: 1996), The Fortunes and Misfortunes of Moll Flanders (TV
Genre: C17, Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Historical, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-30
Updated: 2010-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:44:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Will you not search me, sir?" Robbery on the London Road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand and Deliver

**Author's Note:**

> The BBC production of _Moll Flanders_ (1996) starred Alex Kingston as Moll and Daniel Craig as Jemmy Seagrave. I trust this explains my desire to write fic for it. (It's also an extremely good production, albeit not always faithful to Defoe's original.)
> 
> If you'd like some context, the scene that inspired this ficlet -- and from which I borrowed some dialogue -- can be watched [here on Youtube](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3gvTeErcCQc).

"Sodomy, lechery, lewd behaviour of a sort that I will not mention in such company ..."

Little did the Reverend Smythe know, as the coach rattled along the London Road, that his words were producing an excess of lecherous notions in my mind. Not only did I still feel the marks of my beloved husband's ardour -- for Jemmy Seagrave was never one to restrain his passions -- but deep within me, at the centre of my being, a more immediate sensation threatened to disturb my equilibrium.

Jemmy's gift was one that I could not forget for a moment: a pair of intricately-carven spheres of ivory, joined by a silken cord that was surely now slick with moisture from that most intimate recess of my body. "A lady, having no balls of her own," he'd told me, striding naked to his saddle-bags to extract the small pouch in which he'd carried them, "must find them where she may. Though truth be told, Moll, you've more balls than most men I've met."

Fine words. But now every rut in the road, every wind-tossed branch that startled the horses, every unevenness of the battered leather-clad bench on which I sat, made those instruments of exquisite torment tremble within me, and I teetered on the brink of ecstasy and tried to keep my smile serene and my demeanour unexceptionable.

"... bestiality, incest ..."

Miss Thorpe was not listening to the Reverend. Much to the veiled amusement of the gentleman on her left, she was scrabbling in the folds of her dress. "I vow I had my earrings when we left the inn!"

Her mother hushed her. "No doubt they are in your bag, Celia: now, do be quiet and sit still!"

"... the moral fibre of young men today ..."

I thought I would swoon, or scream, or suffer some paroxysm so alarming that the coach would be halted. But I was as good as a prisoner in this coach, in this company: I must restrain myself: I must gaze out at the damp April woods, affecting boredom, and keep my thoughts from passion, sensation, the delicious tumult at my core.

"... wantoning in broad daylight, with ne'er a thought for …"

And then, from the road ahead: "Stand and deliver!"

The coachman hauled on the reins (causing no little commotion in my centre). The Reverend, Miss Thorpe, the two gentlemen whose names I did not recall, and Mrs Thorpe burst out with a roundelay of complaint. Our unseen assailant's voice came loud and clear: "Throw down your weapons, or I'll spill your guts on the road! Slow and steady, boys, and we'll all live to tell the tale." Then he was at the window, a tall figure blocking out the light, eyes very blue between a villainous hat and a black kerchief that was drawn up to hide the lower part of his face. "Step out, if you please, ladies and gentlemen."

_He_ was a gentleman, no matter his profession. He helped old Mrs Thorpe down from the coach; even as he demanded that we alight, his tone was never less than civil.

I was the last passenger. In truth I could scarce move without sending ripples of pleasure through every nerve in my body.

"And you, ma'am: don't be shy."

He looked me in the eye, but his demeanour remained cool and civil. I admired his assurance even as I longed to ...

I would not afford him a morsel of amusement at my plight. I stepped from the coach, and stumbled as a fresh wave of sensation near toppled me. His hand was on my arm immediately, steadying me. I could feel the heat of it through my fine coat and my silk dress, and I had to breathe deeply before I could move towards where the other passengers stood, hands before them, staring down at the ground as though they might find there a hope of heaven.

Our highwayman was as neat and practical as a housemaid, though rather more intimidating. He sent the Reverend into a swoon: yet he was courtesy itself with Mrs Thorpe when she could not prise her ring from her fat finger. "I wouldn't come between a lady and her wedding ring," he assured her.

Again, I was last. He stood before me, very close, and said, "Now you, madam."

I wore no wedding ring, and I saw him take note of this, Whether he took note of my distracted state (for even standing quite still at the roadside, the ivory balls churned within me, and my breath came quick and shallow) I could not tell. Perhaps he took it for fear. I strove to keep my hands from trembling as I removed the string of pearls from my neck, the earrings -- so dainty, and yet a trifle compared to Miss Thorpe's diamonds -- from my ears.

"I think there's more to find," he said amiably.

"Indeed, sir, no." My breath hitched again, and I pressed my thighs together beneath my skirts: his proximity had set me shivering, within and without.

"Do you consent to be searched?"

"Under protest, sir." I straightened my spine, and almost swooned as the balls shifted within me

"Have a care for this lady's modesty!" cried the highwayman. "Turn your backs and close your eyes -- you two as well!" This last to the coachmen, who had stood aside while the rest of us were robbed. Doubtless they were his accomplices.

"Come," he said to me, and took my hand like a fine gentleman requesting the pleasure of a lady's company for a stroll in the park. I stumbled along after him, off the road and down to the brook, near insensible with the shifting weight within me.

"So," he said, scarcely above a whisper, when we were far enough from the coach that Celia Thorpe's sobs were drowned out by birdsong. He had pulled down his kerchief, so that I might hear him the better. "Do you despise me now?"

"No," I said defiantly. I thought that I might spend, even without his hand on me. "A man must be a man." Then, because I could no longer bear to be with him and not feel his touch, "will you not search me, sir?"

"Why, what do you conceal there?" His hand was at my breast. I wanted it lower. I wanted to hitch up my skirts and let him have me instantly, against the mossy tree beneath which we stood; I wanted him to bear me down onto the muddy river-bank and force -- pretend to force – me. I wanted to wanton in the open air. Perhaps the Reverend Smythe would expire of an apoplexy.

"Whatever you find you are welcome to, sir," I said, my voice as beguiling as ever it had been for any of my marks, "for it is yours."

"Had we but world enough," said he absently, his hands moving from my bosom to my waist. I gasped and swayed into his touch, and thus surely betrayed myself.

"Moll." It was nearer a groan than anything. "Are you ... do you have my gift, upon your person?"

"Your gift is like to drive me insane," I snarled. "I beg you will take them back!"

Now he groaned in truth: it might have been my name, or some wicked oath, or the sound of a man in agony. I ground against his hand, gasping.

"I could take you at this very moment," he said, his lips next to my ear. "I could cant your petticoats up and have you, be inside you, grind my prick against that polished -- wait. The diamonds?"

"I have them safe," I managed, though in truth I wondered if my internal convulsions might not be strong enough to crush the ivory like eggshells, and spill the treasure concealed inside the hollow spheres.

"Then we are --"

"A coach is coming!" someone shouted.

Jemmy swore viciously, and had I not been breathless with anticipation -- turned now, in an instant, to agonising frustration -- I would have cast my demure pretence to the April breeze and added my store of blasphemies to his own.

"Here," he said, and before I could protest he was tipping his loot -- the Reverend's purse, Mrs Thorpe's necklace, all the rest of it -- into my bosom. The metal was cold, and made me shiver, and that was almost the end of me. I began to voice a protest, because surely I could not conceal --

"Take it!" he said fiercely: and then his lips were on mine, a hard and passionate kiss that promised what I could not have, and my poor tantalised body could resist no more. Jemmy's strong arms held me up as my nerves dissolved into fire, as every sinew in my body grew taut and sang like a fiddle, as I writhed and spent myself in an agony of ecstasy: and when I could breathe again, and hear the thunder of hooves approaching, he shoved me back against the green-mossed tree, and said: "Brickhill. Three days."

Then he was gone, swinging up into the saddle, slapping his horse's flank: and I fell to my knees, careless of the cold wet earth, and cursed Jemmy Seagrave and Celia's diamonds, cursed the craftsman who had carved those cunning ivory torments, cursed my own weak woman's body for the surfeit of pleasure that reeled and roiled within me, and would not be stilled.  
.  
-end-


End file.
